Strange Love
by J.J. the hinkypunk
Summary: Post Hogwarts, Voldemort is near world domination, Harry has become an Auror, Draco is a Death Eater. Harry sets out to imprison Draco and finds himself invited to a wizard's duel at the mansion of his foe. Harry/Draco slash.
1. Revenge

Hi hi! This would be the newly edited first chapter of Strange Love. I'm in the process of editing chapter 2, and gulp writing, yes, WRITING! chapter 3. I give you permission to hit me and my muse, as this adventure began 6 months ago and it's taken THIS long. Well, heh. Have fun, my friends.  
  
**Rating:** R   
**Summary:** Post Hogwarts. Voldemort is near world domination, Harry has become an Auror, Draco has become an infamous Death Eater. Harry sets out to imprison Draco and finds himself invited to a wizard's duel at the mansion of his foe. Slash.   
**Disclaimer:** No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
**Author's Note: **Slash is running rampant, proceed with care. Thanks to Heather for beta'ing, and especially to everyone who has taken and/or will take the time to review. May you all experience chocolate covered Dracos and Harries.   
**  
**

Chapter 1: Revenge  


  
Two long tapered fingers encircled a small blackberry, squeezing the mottled flesh indulgently. The fruit had to be perfect, or Draco would not eat it. Two pale eyes surveyed the berry. He studied it carefully; it passed the test. Draco drew the blackberry to his mouth, ready to place it upon his plush tongue, when he noticed an odd discoloration near the bottom of the fruit. He frowned in frustration and set the berry aside. He repeated the process several times until he came across a berry that passed the test--a perfect clot of deep purples, not too firm or too soft, no bruises. He allowed the berry to rest on his tongue for a few seconds, enjoying the feel of the glossy skin in anticipation, then biting down and unleashing the warm, sticky flesh. Draco enjoyed the impeccable berry as it stained his lips deep burgundy. He swirled his tongue over the sweetly flavored lips, ridding them of any remaining juice.   
  
With the setting of the sun in the evening sky of summer, he arose from his wicker seat in the shade of a willow tree and dragged his indolent limbs inside.  
  
It was the long summer nights that he dreaded; the mansion had become a very lonely abode. Draco had had the place to himself for the past year and a half. He had inherited his parents' mansion at the time of their deaths. It was well worth the cost--Draco had become weary of his father's friendship turned obsession with The Dark Lord, and his mother's constant maternal nosiness. They'd been slain a year and a half ago, when Draco was only 19 years of age.   
  
He was smug, being left with a ridiculous amount of Galleons and an elegant mansion. Father's will was left entirely to his son.   
The money proved useful at this time in the Magical community. The economy was in recession, Gringott's was near empty, and old time businesses were closing left and right. Honeydukes boarded up its windows last week, Madam Malkin closed her branch in Paris, tomorrow Ollivander could even be gone. Most wizards were either dead or starving because of unemployment. Voldemort had put most of the magical community in complete disarray. Those who joined him lived with just enough, those who fought him usually perished. The only other options were to settle in a damn good hiding spot or run for cover under Albus Dumbledore's rickety old shoulder.   
  
At first, Draco had been excited at Voldemort's prolonged return during his fifth year of schooling. His father had joined the ranks, allowing Draco to tag along on a minor excursion if he'd been a good boy. However, that had been four or five years ago, and he was growing quite tired of the same old Muggle torture and futile battle between Dumbledore and The Dark Lord. Voldemort was aiming for world domination, but he was held back by Dumbledore, and Dumbledore wanted to purge of the Death Eaters; it seemed as though a stalemate would always be the result of all duels and battles.   
  
It wasn't that Draco sympathized with Muggles and Dumbledore's gang, but there was a point in his life when he became sick of seeing the same few curses used illicitly on hundreds and thousands of people, people with whom he would rather not bother. Even when _he_ was using the Cruciatus Curse on a filthy Mudblood, Draco did not get as much of an adrenaline rush than when he did when this activity was new to him. It wasn't mysterious or cruel anymore, it was just a routine. No different than having a bitter coffee in the morning, or conjuring up some gaudy whore for entertainment.  
  
It was like a trend. Maybe, he decided, that isn't what he wanted make with his life. Muggle torture never really got him anywhere, except deeper and deeper into Voldemort's keen, watchful eye. That was not where he wanted to be. Sometimes he wondered why he was a Voldemort supporter. His father's influence? He gagged at the thought. It was, perhaps, jealousy of the old master, that provided for such support. Draco dreaded in the back of his mind that he idolized the Dark Lord. What power, what magnificence, how bewitching it must have been to fool so many idiots into a near religious worship.   
  
The wealthy young man shook his head as he reminded himself that he was merely a flunky as well, just like his father had been. Nobody feared the name Draco Malfoy it was simply associated with the Dark Arts. Son of the late Lucius, and a rather lonely wanker with too many Galleons to manage.  
  
He couldn't very well break free from Voldemort's circle. He had no interest in those who consorted with the non-Dark side, but he didn't want to follow the Dark Lord all over Britain, and he _didn't_ want to be a victim. He felt as if he belonged nowhere. He was _accepted_ with honor by his fellow Death Eaters, he didn't have much of an interest in them. They weren't his friends, they were simply fighting against the same people as he, for the same forgotten reasons. That didn't mean they were on his side. Draco was not sure he had any real friends. _They prance around at my feet. Their eyes only see my Gringott's account... _It might have been nice to have a genuine conversation for the first time in a while with someone other than his house elf.  
  
So began another endless summer night, where Draco was left alone in his mansion to think. He wandered up a long marble staircase, down a dingy corridor adorned with portraits of several of the deceased Malfoys and tarnished candelabras, burning with eternal flames. He opened a heavy wooden door on to what was his bedroom: a large, lofty room with an oversize bed on one wall, settled between two identical night stands. His bed was covered in white cotton pillows and blankets he'd had made for him somewhere in the Orient. He would have liked an enchanting mistress, a veela, perhaps, to lie there, awaiting his presence in nothing but a small black nightgown trimmed with delicate lace, but his bed lay bare as always. As if a good shag would make him forget...   
  
There was a small clock hung above a bedpost. Its hands were pointed at Time to make tea, but Draco felt like tea couldn't solve his problems and he'd rather drift away into the world of unconsciousness. He unclothed himself and slipped into dark green boxers. He sunk into his welcoming bed and let his heavy eyelids close themselves. After forty-five minutes of wriggling about in a damp perspiration, he had fallen asleep.  
  
Draco slept until noon the next morning; it had been a night of restless sleep. In two hours, he was meant to meet up with Adrian Pucey. Death Eater affairs. The Dark Lord had wanted them to dispose of Mr. and Mrs. Dean Thomas. Voldemort suggested that Mr., an Unspeakable, had discovered the identities and whereabouts of several Death Eaters in an investigation of some sort. It was a small killing duty, albeit, an enjoyable one. Draco remembered Dean from Hogwarts--he was a Muggle loving fool... what was it, soccer? Yes, he was keen on that stupid Muggle game. It was just another excuse for Draco to watch himself dish out another perfect _Avada Kedavra_.  
  
Within minutes, a small house elf scampered in and brought Draco a silver platter piled with belgian waffles and blackberry sauce. Draco ignored the meal and dressed himself in sweeping robes of black cloth. He looked at himself in an antique jeweled mirror inside of his expansive closet. His reflection looked back at him glumly.   
  
Draco, you would look so much nicer with an _expression_ on your face.   
  
He took his revenge by chucking a black dragonhide loafer at it. He cursed at the sound of glass shattering, wishing at once that he hadn't let the need for revenge get the better of him. That mirror had been a family heirloom...  
  
He sauntered down the eerie corridor, down the cold marble staircase, and outside into his large backyard. It was his favorite place of the house. The sun was high in the sky, washing over a simple garden full of exotic plants of green and white, and reflecting off his brand new disappearing edge pool. He liked the pool's effect: no matter how far towards the horizon he swam, he never reached the edge of the pool. It went on forever, although one could plainly see that the massive backyard it was sitting in came to an end.  
  
Adrian Pucey came at precisely two in the afternoon by way of Floo Powder. Draco warned him not to Apparate--his great grandfather who had lived in the mansion previously had put a charm on the house so nobody could Apparate to the house from the outside world. Adrian smiled and nodded when he emerged into Draco's formal living room. Draco, how are you?  
  
Very well thanks, and you? was Draco's automatic answer. _Of course I'm not very well, do I look it?_  
  
I'm just fine indeed. Well, then, shall we go? Thomas lives way over on the other side of the country, we've got a long way to travel...  
  
  
  
In the blink of an eye, Draco and Adrian disappeared from the room and reappeared in the the coat closet near the front door of Dean Thomas' house. As always before the time of a killing curse, Draco could almost smell the victorious scent of death. There was nothing like rotting flesh lying on the ground for days and days until someone discovered it in horror... nothing compared to wide open eyes, sunken into a motionless skull, staring a frozen gaze... Maybe it was simply the smell of the musty closet full of cloaks and wrinkled hats.  


  
*  


  
Muggle torture, just like good old Lucius. That's real a surprise, isn't it? a low voice murmured. Two silhouettes were shadowed in a small room covered in floor to ceiling with shining dark wooden panels. The second person spoke.  
  
The apple does not fall far from the tree, as they say. I've always suspected Draco Malfoy of associating with You-Know-Who, the speaker mumbled, twitching nervously. The second figure in the dark room lashed at him in a hoarse voice.  
  
No you haven't. I remember when you and Lucius Malfoy used to be very close.  
  
the voice trembled. Yes, well, that was some years ago, as you recall. He paused. There is only one of us in this room who bears the Dark Mark, and it is not I, may I remind you.  
  
It seems, we all make mistakes, Cornelius.   
  
Cornelius sat for a moment, thinking. So, then, if Draco Malfoy has been suspected of--  
  
It has been _proven_, Cornelius.  
  
Yes, proven, of Muggle torture--  
  
He has used _Avada Kedavra_ thirty-six times, and the Cruciatus Curse ninety-eight times in the past two years. I have every victim listed here. The man handed over a long piece of parchment covered with names of dead and injured wizards and Muggles. Cornelius accepted the parchment reluctantly. He was hoping for some miracle, that this couldn't be true. He wanted to believe that a descendant from a pure wizarding family was innocent. It seemed as if he wanted to protect the last living Malfoy, but he couldn't gather up the courage.  
  
All right, Severus. Thank you. I will try to have an Auror after him in no later than tomorrow. Have a safe trip back home, all right? It can be very dangerous if you do not hurry.  
  
Get Potter on this case if you can. He is best for the job. A strong Auror...  
  
  
  
Severus was gone from the room before Cornelius finished speaking, leaving in sick disgust.  
  
Cornelius remained motionless in the dark office. Why was Severus Snape so eager to have an Auror come after Draco Malfoy? Had he not been friends with the young man? Was it a set up? Severus couldn't be trusted with that past of his. And why did he have such a look of disdain on his face when he had handed him proof of Draco's crimes? It was possible that neither of them would have like to see Draco in Azkaban. Why had he suggested Potter? He was the best Auror around, and among strongest wizards fighting against You-Know-Who next to a rapidly aging Albus Dumbledore. Why would he specifically suggest Potter? Cornelius Fudge was bemused.   
  
It was inexplicably difficult to try and carry on duties as the Minister of Magic while You-Know-Who was on a five year rampage and the Ministry of Magic was nearly disbanded. Fudge simply was unable to handle the responsibility, try as he might.  
  


*  


Three in the afternoon. By this time, Adrian Pucey and Draco Malfoy had returned home, leaving Dean limp on the floor, his skull severely injured; he had hit a glass table after the curse killed him, and his wife in even worse condition. It was a clean kill; Voldemort would be content. The pair of Death Eaters were unaware that Seamus Finnigan was coming over for the weekend to spend some time with his old buddy. Pity--when he arrived, he shut his eyes and strung his hands through his short hair and began cursing and hitting walls with his fist. He recognized the handiwork; it was not at all uncommon these days to walk in on a friend's house and find he or she a victim of the _Avada Kedavra _curse. He'd seen it all over the Daily Prophet, every day for the past few years, but never had anyone so close to him been killed. It hit him hard, like a knife driving through his spine.  
  
That night, Harry Potter ran into Seamus in the Leaky Cauldron. Seamus looked terrible; his face was plastered with fake apathy and he had most obviously had too much to drink.  
  
All right, Seamus? he asked, trying to sound a bit cheerful.  
  
No... oh, shit, Harry, they got Dean and his wife today... Harry's face fell. _Avada Kedavra._ Death Eaters, of course. They haven't found out who it was yet. Seamus let his head drop against the table with a heavy thud. Harry's drink, which had been sitting quietly on the table top, nearly spilled.  
  
I'm sorry, Seamus. I know you two were very close... Harry wondered why he hadn't heard about Dean's death. Generally, news traveled quickly to the Aurors...  
  
We were best friends, all through school, and then afterwards, like you and Ron. Imagine them killing Ron, Harry, that's what it's like. I can't _live_ in a time like this. It'll be anyone next, the Death Eaters will kill anyone, Harry...   
  
Harry felt awkward. He knew what it felt like to lose someone, but he didn't know what to say. The one thing he despised of his profession was the hatred that burned through his thoughts, eating up any words of comfort he had to offer. Life wasn't about revenge or comfort or even friendship; it seemed like people could only look out for themselves now and pray that Voldemort didn't raid their homes.   
  
Deep in thought, Harry did not notice Cornelius Fudge enter the Leaky Cauldron. He was dressed in the usual loud green suit; the same thing he had been wearing as long as Harry could remember.  
  
Ah, Harry, fancy seeing you here, he boasted, trying to make it seem as if he found Harry.  
  
Fudge approached. I'm actually here on business. You see, the, er, Ministry is in need of someone fit to catch a Dark wizard that is particularly threatening at this time. So I turn to you, you are one of the best Aurors; are you not? You are familiar with the man, I believe. Mr. Draco Malfoy, he stated clearly.   
  
Harry nodded. Of course, of course that swine was recognized as a Dark wizard, just like his father, who had been convicted of Muggle torture, imprisoned in Azkaban, released on account of good behavior, and killed a year and a half ago; murderer never found (though Harry suspected anyone who could have murdered the Malfoy's wasn't too bad a person). He couldn't help feeling a tiny bit happy--Draco Malfoy knew what it was like to be an orphan, oh, the _poor_ little dear... Harry almost smirked.   
  
Yes, I know him from Hogwarts. What about his whereabouts?  
  
That's the thing, he isn't even in hiding or with You-Know-Who. Malfoy had been operating from his own manor house, _but_, we do not know where it is located. The mansion is heavily enchanted and hidden from view.  
  
Harry listened less than intently as Cornelius Fudge droned on about facts that he was already aware of--it was commonly known that the Malfoys were synonymous Death Eaters or Dark wizards, and that their lavish mansion was well hidden. Some people had inspected it and its contents in the past, but the investigators that had not found anything suspicious in the Malfoy mansion, had they had all conveniently been found dead recently (courtesy of the late Lucius, no doubt). Harry fabricated methods to which he might be able to map a charmed structure.  
  
And when he is caught, I shall bring him to Azkaban? he questioned askance. He didn't think Azkaban was appropriate for anyone (it might have been Dumbledore's influence). Some of the dementors had joined Voldemort's side and released several Death Eaters from imprisonment, and proceeded to join the escapees on the Dark side. It was quite a catastrophe; a lot of wizards ended up in St. Mungo's, the unlucky bunch who had been kissed.  
  
Yes, yes, bring him to Azkaban, Fudge answered, nodding nervously. Fudge still had faith in the dementors for some reason; perhaps it was because they were filthy, macabre creatures, in spite of their spontaneous disloyalty.  
  
Harry nodded. He lifted himself from his seat and walked out of the Leaky Cauldron.  
  
See you, Harry! wailed an old, admiring witch on his way out the door.  
  
Seamus had stayed in his spot, making a mental note of everything Fudge had said. It might have been nice to be an Auror, he thought. Every bone in his body dripped with revenge. He wanted to justify the death of his friend.  
  
Harry returned to a small flat in London where he had been living for the past few weeks. He sunk into an oversized dragonhide couch. Cornelius Fudge was such an imbecile sometimes. A bit of a con man, it seemed. He had once been fond of the Malfoy family. Harry was surprised he had not vacated position of the Minister of Magic yet. He was certainly having a lot trouble, but who could blame him?  
  
Harry made himself a strong cup of black coffee. Draco Malfoy... this one intrigued him. When he made the decision to become an Auror at the age of eighteen, he had been a little skeptical. He wanted more than anything to play Quidditch, but that would have been so selfish of him. He chose his occupation because he had a strange idea in his head that he could stop Dark wizards from murdering. That concept was less petty than playing a silly sport (he hit himself for trying to convince his conscience to think Quidditch was just a silly sport) while Voldemort was on a rampage. He had been angry that he wasn't a selfish bastard and he chose what was right, not what he wanted. It didn't matter--Quidditch was called off just this year because of the war with Voldemort. But now Harry was delighted to be an Auror; a vile feeling coursed through his veins.   
  
He found it strange... he enjoyed that foul feeling. It would be lovely going after Malfoy and watching his malicious, pale face scrunch up in horror as Harry caught up with him. Harry could see it: he would break into his house late at night... his wand would explode with painful curses, Malfoy would be begging for mercy... but Harry wouldn't stop. It was his kind that killed Harry's parents, it was his kind that killed innocent people like Dean. And Harry would continue to curse him; the Imperius Curse would be effective. He'd force Malfoy to bend his own limbs in impossible positions, his knees would fold backwards, his neck would snap itself, he'd fall to the ground in pain. And then he'd perform the Cruciatus Curse... Malfoy would cry in agony...  
  
No! He didn't want to use any Unforgivable Curses, what was he thinking? He didn't want to do anything stupid because of an old schoolboy grudge against Malfoy. He sipped his coffee, even though he plainly disliked it. He downed it trying to ignore its bitter taste. It was hot and burned his throat as he swallowed it, but he drank anyway rather than waiting for it to cool off. _Think_, _Harry_, he told himself. _You've got to track this bastard down_...  
  


*  


  
Did he agree?  
  
Yes, Severus. You were correct. Harry is a good one for this job. I'm just worried that it might be something personal, I hear that Harry and Draco loathed each other back in their days at Hogwarts.  
  
Yes, Cornelius, I teach there, I know that, spat Snape, who looked rather annoyed by the jittery man in a green pinstripe suit.  
  
Speaking of _personal_... Anyway... You and old Lucius used to be friends, didn't you? Cornelius Fudge asked.  
  
Friends. I met him when we were Dea-- er, never mind, Snape mumbled.  
  
Must have been rough when he was killed, especially because no one ever found out who did it. Cornelius shifted around in his seat. He hated these meetings with Snape; Snape made him feel uncomfortable. But he knew a great deal about who was who in the Dark world, so Fudge put up with him. Snape passed on interesting information--he was always able to give Fudge an update on Dumbledore and his pursuits (Fudge had stopped speaking personally to Dumbledore since he usually made a damn fool of himself). Of course, he had to pay Snape off. Nobody worked for free these days. Galleons were hard to come by.  
  
No, _they _never found who killed Lucius and Narcissa. Snape sank deep into his velvet armchair and rested his head in his hands. It had been so long since he had last seen Lucius. Nevertheless, he could remember the man in fine detail. Lucius always wore robes of pure black--they were never faded. His thin blond hair made him look almost gray, and he had always smelled of rich cigar smoke. Snape almost dozed off for minute, he was so tired, and thinking of Lucius was so nice... reminded him of the old times...  
  


*  


  
... Severus, I'm here on business. I thought I'd drop by. How long has it been since I saw you last? A young Lucius smiled warmly.  
  
Almost a month. Do come in, do come in, Severus motioned Lucius into his classroom and led him back to the room of his private stock. He gathered up a few ghastly looking objects from a table and allowed Lucius to sit casually on top of it.  
  
I've missed you, Severus, Lucius glanced around the room, intrigued. How long before your next Potions class arrives?  
  
Double Potions... Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw... we've got a half of an hour. Lucius nodded, listening deftly to Snape speak. Nobody will come in here, this is clearly off limits to my students. We're safe.  
  
Oh, Severus. This is _romantic_. Me and you... in a storeroom of potions ingredients? Lucius chuckled, tossing his head back gaily.  
  
I'd take you to the bedroom, but don't you think someone would be suspicious?   
  
Lucius nodded once more. Right. Suspicious. Correctly so, mmm? We're not supposed to by at it in the middle of Hogwarts.   
  
Severus was about to speak, but Lucius was too quick for him. He couldn't wait any longer, it had nearly been a month since he had been able to visit Severus. Severus felt Lucius's familiar lips interlock with his, warm and moist. He slipped his tongue inside Lucius's mouth as if he were satisfying a prolonged starvation. Lucius's wet tongue flickered inside his mouth, a pair of thick hands wrapped around his waist and slid gracefully down his thighs. He took a moment to gaze into Lucius's plain gray eyes--they always came to life when he and Severus were together. Severus took a last glance into those eyes before closing his own heavy lids, letting Lucius consume him. An alabaster hand slipped through Severus's robes, undoing several ties and buttons before they slid to the ground in a heap. With his other hand, Lucius toyed with one nipple, whilst surveying Severus's lean body in satisfaction. He watched the nipple pucker up and ventured through a long kiss. Lucius drew his mouth lower down Severus's neck, encircling his tongue over the other nipple. Severus felt his muscles tighten up. Lucius ran his hands down Severus's body ravenously, kneeling down as he massaged Severus's taut body. He spread Severus's legs and found himself eye level with a rigid erection. He grasped it with the pads of his fingers... then his mouth... blowing softly... hot... like fire... Severus arched his back... Lucius was so good at this...  
  


*  


  
Severus? Severus...? Fudge waved his hand about, trying to catch Snape's attention.  
  
Er, excuse me, Cornelius, just thinking about, er... Snape's twisted lips curved in anger. He remembered the few times he had slept with Lucius. They had been among the happiest moments of his life. Lucius was the kind of person he had wanted; he was the ideal--wealthy, intelligent, striking, fierce, though perhaps a bit of a compulsive liar. And there was always his insipid little excuse of a wife, whom Snape had been convinced was only married to Lucius for two reasons: Lucius wanted a son to boast the family name, and Lucius wanted to cover up any suspicions of ongoing affairs with other wizards. The former reason was, perhaps, fatal.   
  
Fudge noticed Snape's eyes flicker, as if he were getting riled up about something. It must have been the controversy of Lucius's murder. After all, it was odd to find a Death Eater mysteriously murdered--usually someone wanted to take credit for dragging in a Voldemort follower. This was different, though. Severus knew very well who had killed Lucius, but he wasn't about to tell anyone. It might raise some questions. The only thing Severus could do now was avenge the death of his longtime friend, and he had everything right where he wanted it. He was going to have the murderer destroyed.  
  


*   


  
A large eagle owl swooped into Harry's open window, dropping down a letter and leaving promptly. Harry wondered who it could be from. He did not keep in touch with anyone who owned an eagle owl. He picked up the letter, feeling the crisp cream colored paper between his thumb and index finger. He turned it over. It was addressed to him and written in very neat handwriting; the writer had been meticulous. Harry slid his finger though the sticky part of the envelope and pulled a folded up piece of paper out of it. He unfolded and began to read to himself.  
  
_Harry,   
How are things on the side of good? It's such a shame about Quidditch; I know both you and I would have enjoyed playing professionally. _  
  
He paused, running a string of faces through his head...  
  
_Do you enjoy being an Auror? Speaking of which, I hear you are after me. That is fabulous, Harry. I am most excited. I await your arrival. Consider this letter an invitation. What would you say to a Wizard's Duel? If you defeat me, I'll allow you to arrest me, take me to Azkaban, whatever you wish. If I win, you shall return to my mansion with me where you will be imprisoned. One on one, a fair game. I will be waiting in Knockturn Alley, seven meters west of the apothecary on July 20th, midnight. The duel will be held at my humble abode, I'm sure you will love to see it, if you are able to live long enough for a complete tour. Take care.  
Sincerely yours,  
Draco Malfoy  
_  
Harry reread the letter. His first instinct was that Malfoy had something planned. A fair game? Who was he trying to fool? Malfoy never played a fair game. But he had second thoughts. If Malfoy was planning on dueling Harry at the mansion, Harry would learn where it was located, obviously. There was no way he'd be defeated by Malfoy, dueling was a forte of his. Perhaps he would go. He needed to settle things with Malfoy once and for all. There had always been rivalry between those two, and Harry would enjoy seeing Draco imprisoned after many years of crime.   
  
Then it dawned on Harry that this was the opportunity he had been waiting for. Yes, it was an invitation to a duel, but, as Malfoy obviously did not realize, it was an invitation of his defeat. This would be fun, thought Harry. He put Draco's sarcastic letter aside, making the discussion of meeting Draco on the day he requested the duel. He would, perchance, tell someone of his plan, incase something were to happen to him.  
  
Harry wondered over a cup of green tea if he was making a stupid mistake. He almost wanted to confer with Hermione and Ron, like back in the days of Hogwarts, but he didn't want to bother them. He knew better than that; Ron had proposed to Hermione not long ago and wedding plans were in the making--which meant they were quite preoccupied. Harry was to be their best man...  
  


*  


  
The twentieth came around. Harry contemplated how he should go about his rendezvous with Malfoy. He wore robes of black (blended in best with the night air), layered with his Invisibility cloak. He tucked his wand into an inner pocket of his robes and stood at the foot of his door. He wondered vaguely if he should ask someone to be his second, but who was available? He was still very unsure and very without a plan--which made him uncomfortable--he felt better with a concise order of planned events to follow. Oh well, he'd think of something...   
  
A second later, he was gone.  
  


**End chapter 1**


	2. An Eye for an Eye

strange love 2

Hi! Sorry it took so long, but this fic is going to be comming quite slowly (sorry), if you really want to know why you can email me and ask... heh. But it _will_ be finished someday sweatdrops. Hope you enjoy this installment. Thanks a lot to Heather for putting up with all my lovely typos and American spellings and crazy things like that. smooch   
  
Warning: SLASH. It's more of an invitation than warning, from my perspective.   
Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling.   
Note: This fic begins two or three years after Harry and co.'s last year of Hogwarts. In that time, Voldemort is near world domination, Harry has become an Auror, and Draco has followed in his father's footsteps by becoming a loyal Death Eater and the torturing of Muggles.   
**  
**Strange Love  
Chapter 2: An Eye for an Eye   
  
At 11:55 pm, Sirius Black was disturbed by a faint knocking on his front door. That's strange, he mumbled to himself, peeling a tangle of white bed sheets off of himself. He pulled on a bathrobe and wallowed down the hallway towards his door. His dark hair was in complete disarray and he smelled faintly of rose perfume--sort of an aftertaste from a woman he had been with at the moment, who was, presumably, still in his bed. He peered through the door--it was enchanted so that one could see anyone standing at the doorstep from inside the house. He instantly recognized the lanky, shadowed figure as Harry. Sirius opened the door at once.  
  
All right, Harry? Sirius motioned for Harry to come inside.  
  
Er, yes, and sorry about the hour. I just had to stop by... last minute thing I need to discuss with you...  
  
Sirius nodded. A soft echo of footsteps made their way down the hallway, and Sirius's girlfriend peered out to see what was going on. She managed to keep herself hidden behind the lingering shadows of the moonlight.  
  
Sirius sensed that Harry was in a bit of a hurry; he seemed a little jittery and anxious.  
  
I'm dueling someone tonight, at his house, with no seconds. I just thought I'd let you know... incase something were to happen to me, which is _not_ going to happen, he spattered quickly.  
  
_Enlightening_. I suspect you are going to tell me a little more? Sirius questioned.  
  
I'm dueling Draco Malfoy. We're meant to meet in Knockturn Alley in a few minutes, and then it's on to his house for the duel. Harry shot glances at the front door.  
  
You're dueling a Death Eater on his own turf? Sirius was about to comment on how stupid it would be to do that, but instead he decided that Harry was able to make decisions and that offering advice would be much more practical. Well, expect tasteless tactics and cheating of all sorts. They'll do anything to defeat their opponent. Don't ever turn your back without knowing what's behind you, Sirius thought hard. Listen, keep me posted. I don't like the sound of this at all.  
  
I figured you'd say that. I'm skeptical as well, Harry paused. It's strictly for the job. Malfoy's got to be arrested, and someone has to do it.  
  
Here, take this and call me when you're through or if you need me. Sirius reached into a table drawer and pulled out a cell phone, of all things. He tossed it in Harry's direction.  
  
Why do you have--  
  
These gadgets are very useful for communication. I'd come close to commending Muggles for their electronics, and not many wizards will recognize a phone and know how to use it. Anyway, my number should be programmed in there...  
  
Thanks, Sirius. Harry tucked the phone into his robe pocket next to his wand, wondering why the hell Sirius kept extra cell phones lying around. He helped himself out of the door, leaving with a simple, See you.  
  
Sirius nodded in return, and watched Harry Apparate off the foot of his entry way. He snuck back into his house, then to his bedroom, where an attractive woman with long chestnut hair and cerulean blue eyes was waiting innocently.  
  


*  


  
Draco Malfoy felt his muscles tighten up as midnight approached. Knocturn Alley was wonderfully creepy when mysterious wizards and creatures were not lurking around. The place was empty except for Draco, or so it seemed. Draco's thin lips pressed into a smile as he glanced across the narrow alley; he had called upon Marcus Flint (who proved to be competent enough to be trusted with certain things) to help him with the duel. There was a small voice in Draco's head that pleaded silently for a fair fight, but the Slytherin boy inside of him won over as always. He knew that Potter would come along, expecting to be face to face with his foe and only his foe, but Draco did not want to lose a chunk of his face in a duel, thus Flint would make an appearance (not literally, however; Flint was tucked safely under a sweeping Invisibility Cloak).  
  
Come on Potter, I haven't got all night. Where the hell is he? Draco muttered to himself.  
  
Behind you.  
  
Draco whirled around; his eyes widened. _Always punctual, always here when you want him to be,_ Draco thought, smirking. Harry stood only a few feet from him now. He could barely make out his features in the darkness of the alley. Harry was still small as he had always been, but he looked much older. He had grown out of his boyish face and his hair was tame. His robes concealed his figure, though Malfoy assumed he was still a scrawny little thing.  
  
Good evening, Harry, Draco smiled, outstretching his hand.  
  
Harry raised an eyebrow. Draco was expecting a handshake, eh? _Interesting,_ he thought. _He's stalling, the bastard..._  
  
Harry took the moment to survey his opponent. He was tall; Harry came up to about the base of his neck. He had definitely spent some time at the gym... hell, he probably had his own gym at home. His arms were sculpted, his shoulders broad, waist trimmed. He might have been intimidating if Harry hadn't defeated him three years in a row playing Quidditch back at Hogwarts. Harry tried to make out Malfoy's expression though the black veil of the night, but it was impossible. He only saw two apathetic eyeballs glaring malignantly in his direction. And that was the last thing he saw.  
  
Draco's arm was still outstretched, disappointed. He had wanted to feel the flesh of his rival, he had wanted to embrace Harry's bony hand, and crush it and shatter it. But, on cue, Marcus Flint moved silently towards Harry's back, pointed his want, and shouted, . Harry had slumped to the ground, landing with a thud.   
  
Thank you, Marcus, he whispered.  
  
My pleasure. Never thought I'd take out _him_, of all people... Flint seemed very pleased with himself. There was a bit of prestige in hitting the amazing Harry Potter with a curse... not everyone got such an opportunity. Have fun with him, Draco, Flint coughed.  
  
Oh, you know I will, you know I will...  
  
Marcus Flint handed the Invisibility Cloak to Draco and disappeared.  
  
Draco knelt over and reached into Harry's robes, searching for his wand. Ah, nice abs, the man's not as skinny as he looks, Draco said brightly, Whoops, no, the _wand_, Draco, you're looking for the wand. Draco smiled to himself and withdrew the Auror's wand. He felt something else in the inner chest pocket; it was a small, rectangular object, made of something hard and covered with buttons. He pocketed that as well for good measure.  
  
All right, time to go home, you're going to have to Apparate along with me, Harry. It'll be fun, Draco looked at the unconscious Harry, whose bangs were brushed to the side, revealing the legendary scar. Draco paused to brush his finger over it, to feel it, the small mark that set Harry apart from every other wizard...  
  


*  


  
Seamus Finnigan went into the office the following day (he worked for the Department of Magical Games and Sports). He still looked quite depressed, and quite furious at the same time. His eyes were lit with fire, he could still see Dean's limp carcass lying on the floor.  
  
Finnigan, you look terrible, a coworker commented cooly.  
  
Fuck you, Flint, Seamus grunted. Flint smiled to himself.  
  
So fuck me, then.  
  
I'm sorry, what did you say? Seamus asked, wondering if his ears were failing him.  
  
Oh, just commenting on a Muggle truck I saw once... Flint chuckled. My, my, we're in a bad mood today, aren't we, Finnigan?   
  
Seamus liked his job (though the wrath of the public opinion was quite a nasty bugger; they grew very angry when the department had to shut down the Quidditch league), but he hated some of his contemporaries. Particularly, Marcus Flint was a moron, always turning down Seamus's ideas, being an unfriendly prick, always wanting to raise the prices of Quidditch tickets an such...  
  
Shut the hell up. Don't talk to me today, I'm not in the mood for dealing with you, Seamus muttered.  
  
Flint raised an eyebrow. Usually Finnigan wasn't so grouchy... not to mention quite handsome... not a bad person to work with most of the time... then it occurred to him. Seamus had been good friends with Dean Thomas. _Ah, he's being a bastard because he's mad about his dear old friend._ You're still going on about the murder of Thomas, aren't you, Finnigan.  
  
Seamus paused, maybe he'd listen to Flint this time.  
  
Killed by a Death Eater, they say? Marcus decided he was going to toy with Seamus's mind. He enjoyed that activity. They don't know what they are talking about. He was killed by _two_ Death Eaters. I know them very well. Friends from school.  
  
You know who killed Dean? Seamus asked, his voice hoarse and quiet. He was shaking. He looked at Flint's amused face with fervent hatred.  
  
Of course I do. But it wouldn't do _me_ any good to tell you, so if you're aiming at finding out, don't bother...  
  
Who killed Dean? Seamus demanded, still quivering.  
  
Why, are you going to go after them? Not a chance, they'll kill you in an instant. Flint went along, pretending to be interested in some files in a large metal cabinet in the corner of the room.  
  
Damn you, Flint. You're going to tell me, whether you want to or not. Seamus reached his hand toward his wand, preparing to strike. He could feel his whole body on fire, burning to the core in outrage.  
  
No need for violence, don't reach for the wand, Finnigan. I'll tell you. You know why? Because I like you.  
  
Calmed, Seamus let his hand fall to his side.  
  
All right. But I want something first, Flint said, groping at Seamus. Fuck me. I'm not kidding, you know. I could use a good fuck from someone like you...  
  
Oh god... Seamus had no idea Flint was gay; he'd never really thought about it. He was alarmed with his own reaction. Rather than being absolutely disgusted, he was shocked. You want sexual favors? Who the hell do you think I am? Fucking bastard...  
  
Then it's settled: I won't say who killed them. Might work out for the better. They'd probably kill _me _if I told you anything...  
  
Wait, I haven't said anything yet.  
  


*  


  
Glasses removed, Harry found it difficult to see. He was in a bedroom, one decorated in various shades of green velvet. The walls were painted white, the furniture was old fashioned and was adorned with intricate carving designs--what looked like skeletal faces made of wood. He was still drowsy. Harry realized his head was propped up on deep green pillows, and he was not alone in the room. Malfoy was there, sitting in a green armchair, taping his fingers absentmindedly on one arm rest. Ah, you're awake. Took you long enough. Do you have any idea how long I've been waiting? His mouth was curved acutely and he was staring blankly at Harry. What should I do with you, Potter? He arose from his sitting position and began gliding through the contents of the room. He paused, scanning some type of portrait that Harry had not noticed. He sauntered over to a bedside table and reached his hand out for a pair of what looked like glasses... Harry realized they were his and attempted to snatch them before Malfoy was able to, but when he tried to move his arm, a slashing pain shot from his shoulder to the tips of his fingers.   
  
Malfoy smiled. No, I don't like you in these. Mind if I toss them? Without giving Harry a chance to protest, Draco flung the glasses away, not bothering to see where they landed. He leaned in closer to Harry, who seemed unable to move and was in a bit of pain, and touched his cheek gently. Yes, you look much better without those horrible things.  
  
Harry was infuriated. Malfoy... that scum... he had cheated... If only he were strong enough to retaliate... what had Malfoy done to him? He couldn't move a muscle without searing pain. His body was on fire; he felt as though he were burning.  
  
Don't try and move, Harry, you're under a curse. Sorry it had to be this way, Malfoy sputtered, every word spoken with disdain. I wanted to duel, we could have settled our differences. I almost went through with it... Imagine, we would have cursed each other silly. But I've taken a liking with you. Who wouldn't? I was expecting you to be an ugly little rat, like back at school, but look, you've grown up. Lovely green eyes; they remind me of poison. He smiled, gliding closer to Harry and looking deep into his face. What am I going to do with you? Is that what you're wondering; why do I want you?  
  
Harry did not answer.  
  
You are quite the commodity. Funny that I'm the one with money, but you're the one with value...  
  
You're going to sell me, Harry croaked.  
  
That's right. To The Dark Lord. He's got that grudge against you...  
  
You're not going to sell me to Voldemort, Harry muttered. You'd rather kill me yourself. You'd rather watch me writhe on the ground going mad from the Cruciatus Curse, than sell me to some freak. Harry wanted so badly to fight, but he restricted himself to barely moving a muscle until he found out what Malfoy had done to him.  
  
_Potter is good, _though Draco. Everything he said made sense to Draco, who was nodding along to Harry's words, thinking things over. Honestly, he had no idea what he was going to do with Harry. He felt safer now that he had control over the Auror, and it was time to prove himself the better man. He had been waiting for this.  
  
He was sick of watching Harry succeed, he was sick of how everyone fell head over heals just because the boy had survived a curse, probably by luck. He was sick of Harry beating him in Quidditch year after year, he was sick of watching Harry trotting around, flanked with friends, when Draco had none. He had money, not friends.  
  
And now was his chance to unleash everything bottled up inside him. Torture... he thought about torturing the Auror. That seemed like an obvious thing to do. But something told him that Harry was strong enough to resist most curses. Harry was willing to die for his cause--perhaps he did not care if he was his with pain beyond his wildest dreams. Harry was probably used to that. It was in the job description.  
  
Draco shook his head on that idea. He wanted to do something different, something that would destroy Harry psychologically. He wanted to slowly penetrate Harry's mind and drive him insane without using magic.   
  
The trouble was, Draco didn't know how to do anything except magic.  
  


*  
  


Seamus quickly dressed himself, feeling in need of a shower. It was early in the morning; a thin gray layer of clouds was already beginning to roll in under the sky. He had just spent the night with Flint and made it alive, though he felt disgusting and slime--he never imagined himself fucking anyone to get information... Marcus Flint lived in a small, suburban house, all alone. He was still lying on the bed, relishing in the memories of the previous night. He had enjoyed it, thus displayed by profuse erotic moaning. It was still echoing in Seamus's ears, haunting him. _At least I know I was good,_ he said to himself, trying to make the most of the situation.   
  
He fumbled around the room for Marcus's wand. He was not going to return it until he had confirmed the names and locations of Dean's murderers.  
  
Wake up, ass hole, Seamus barked at Flint. He didn't have all day to wait for Flint to wake up. He wanted to leave as soon as possible; the house was quite cryptic and dark--weird gadgets strewn all over the place.  
  
Marcus grumbled into a pillow, rolling over languidly.   
  
I haven't got time for this, get your ass out of bed.  
  
Alll riiggght... commmmingggg... Apparently, Flint was not a morning person. He moved like a sloth, but eventually he stood up. Ah, Seamus, darling. Sex was good, sure you aren't gay? he said, realizing that Seamus was there.  
  
I'm straight as a fucking flagpole, now give me what I want, he sputtered in annoyance.  
  
You sure didn't seem like it last night... no straight guy can do that well with another guy... Flint said, grinning like an idiot.  
  
Seamus narrowed his eyes. He was about ready to kill this guy, but managed to contain himself.  
  
Yeah, okay, you wanted some information. Who killed Dean Thomas? Who killed Dean Thomas. The answer my friend, is Mr. Potter and Mr. Longbottom. Surprise, eh?  
  
Seamus considered his options. Oh. Coffee? he offered.  
  
Yes, thanks, I'd love some coffee, Seamus darling, Flint murmured.  
  
Be back in a minute, Seamus answered, heading to the kitchen. He prepared one cup of instant coffee that he had discovered in Flint's cupboard. He reached into the inner pocket of his robes and held a small vial up to the light, checking to make sure it's contents were still there. Nothing like Veritaserum, he commented to himself, dropping the entire solution into the steaming coffee. He returned to his colleague.  
  
Thanks, Seamus, Flint purred, taking a long sip of the drink.  
  
Let's try this once more. Who killed Dean Thomas? Seamus asked.   
  
Adrian Pucey.  
  
You said there were two of them. Who is the other?  
  
Draco Malfoy.  
  
Seamus stopped, remembering to breath. The feeling of revenge shot through his veins again. He wasn't going to lay quiet until he killed them, until the men who murdered his best friend suffered a long, drawn out death.  
  
Where does Malfoy live? he stammered.  
  
In a house.  
  
Seamus knocked a lamp off Flint's bedside table in feral anger. It shattered.  
  
Fucking smart ass. Where does Malfoy live?  
  
Flint seemed shaken by Seamus's sudden hostility and began talking against his will.  
  


*  
  


Draco stretched out on a lawn chair by his pool. It was time for his sunset-ritual. This time he was eating raspberries. He had several piled in a small bowl, and was eating them carelessly. He did not stop to see if they were bruised or blemished; he just ate them. He didn't even care when he bit one down the center and crimson juice trickled down the side of his mouth, past his neck, and on to his robes. He didn't notice the sticky, fleshy taste; he didn't notice the crunch of the tiny seeds. He didn't care anymore. Something was on his mind.  
  
He was scum. He didn't have any pride, he hated himself and what he had become. He had followed his father because that was the only thing he had been exposed to. He remembered his father... an arrogant bastard. Draco didn't want to be like that._ So duel Harry, Draco. Duel him like a man with a conscience. Be fair._ _And if you die trying? That's all right. Better dead than lonely, _he thought. _Yes, I can do this, I can try something new. I can give Harry a chance to duel me like I should have from the start._  
  
So then and there, Draco made up his mind, that when morning came, he would duel Harry. The decision made him miserable, but he was sick of life. He finished up his bowl of fruit.  
  
end chapter  
  
Stay tuned for further slashiness. I apologize in advance if chapter 3 takes forever... And thanks to those of you who reviewed last time. You guys made my day--  
  
Tessie, Ron, Maggie, Yael (you've saved my butt _twice_, and for that I love you ^_^), Storm, J, The Girl Who Whined, blackskye (happy ending? ha!), Damiani, Ruka-chan, Liz,Wyvern (who nearly roasted me and fed me to myself!), The Goddess Artemis, Piper, Maandy, x, Goddess Shinigami, Shadow Maxwell-Yui (ooh, a Heero/Duo fan!!), artemis, Zhi Chang, moontildawn, RainShadow, and KasimiraKay** KasmiraKay** ( Signed Review ) chapter: 1 @ 07-23-2001 10:13 AM 2937907  



	3. Rethinking

Holy allegators, I know, it's been, what? 4 months? Oy.   
  
Thanks go to Heather, you nice, kind, really spiffy people who have reviewed. :-)  
  
Warning: SLASH. Don't like, don't read.   
Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling and is being used without permission but not for profit.   
Note: This fic begins two or three years after Harry and co.'s last year of Hogwarts. In that time, Voldemort is near world domination, Harry has become an Auror, and Draco has followed in his father's footsteps by becoming a loyal Death Eater and the torturing of Muggles.  
  
Strange Love  
Chapter 3: Rethinking  
  
Marcus Flint had fallen asleep on his dusty old couch without realizing it. When he woke up some time late in the afternoon, he began humming to himself and went about his usual business. He brushed his teeth, washed his face, and suited up in a casual set of robes. A cloud of gloom slowly crossed his face; he started to replay the events that had gone on earlier in the day.  
  
he muttered, as he began fooling with his hair. I'm a dead man, isn't that peachy? _I told Seamus everything.   
  
_Veritaserum had got the better of him... _It was in the coffee that Seamus made for me. I only never meant to tell him anything. Draco is going to kick my ass. He doesn't like people knowing where his house is._  
  
Flint was not at all happy about the whole Seamus thing. Sure, he'd had some good sex, but he had just done something that Draco would hate him dearly for. Draco scared the pants off of him (sometimes even literally, but that's irrelevant, really). Draco would kill anyone in an instant, even a Death Eater. He was erratic and unpredictable and had quite a temper.  
  
Flint glanced around. It looked as though Seamus had left a few hours ago, after he had fallen asleep. He couldn't remember exactly what he told Seamus, but he recalled Seamus smiling in satisfaction. Flint elected that he should try and forget about the whole fiasco until he got in trouble about in. He'd go clubbing tonight, to take his mind off the matter.  
  
*  
  
The room was a blur to Harry, who had spent the night trying to formulate some sort of plan. He was still under a curse and could move just enough to breathe, and he couldn't see five feet without his glasses. He was tired as he had not had any sleep during the night. He didn't want to close his eyes when he was in Malfoy's house--he never knew what might happen. Not that closing his eyes would have been much worse... he wasn't very productive without glasses.   
  
Unexpectedly, a wrinkly little house elf thumped in though the door. He was carrying a wand, but he seemed to treat it like a smelly carcass, grasping it in the tips of two fingers. He stretched his hand out away from his body, so that the wand was as far away from him as it could possibly be while he was holding it. He had probably heard of poor Winky, now famous for sparking the House Elf Revolution...  
  
The elf trotted to the bed in which Harry lay, and set the wand on the adjacent night stand, wincing as he peeked at the slender piece of wood. Harry Potter, Master is wanting you to duel him. You is to meet him right away! You is to follow me, sir, he squeaked quite ecstatically.  
  
But... I can't exactly move, Harry protested.  
  
Master says the curse should have worn off by sunrise. Come Harry Potter!  
  
Harry rolled out of bed tentatively, straightened out his slightly wrinkled robes, and followed the house elf out of the room. His muscles throbbed as he moved.  
  
He led Harry down a dark corridor, through a cleverly disguised door in the wall that appeared as a wooden panel, and down a dusty staircase made of white marble. He ended up in what looked like a lavish living room, filled with exotic furniture and sweeping tapestries. Malfoy was sitting stiffly on a blood-red couch, tapping his foot up and down on the ground. He rose slowly upon Harry's entrance.  
  
Ah, Harry darling. Curse worn off? he asked, surveying Harry from head to foot in satisfaction. _Tasty thing, isn't he? Maybe I'll nibble at him in the afterlife. _  
  
Just about, thanks. Would you like to have a go?  
  
Yes, actually. I'm sure Natty here, he tilted his head in the elf's direction, has given you my message. We _will_ duel. That's how it should be. Potter versus Malfoy, he smiled.  
  
Why are you doing this, Malfoy? Why are you acting like you've got some sense of... some sense of valor for the first time in your life? I mean, I was shocked when your elf told me you wanted a duel after all... Harry wondered aloud.  
  
Malfoy's gray eyes seemed to be even duller than usual. The sky during a rainstorm would have been more jovial. He thought about the answer to Harry's wonderings, and proceeded to speak slowly and carefully so it had some chance of coming out properly. He might as well be honest, since either he or Harry was about to die in this duel. I'm just tired of this whole thing. I'm tired of being a Death Eater, I'm tired of being feared. It's not better to be feared than loved, Harry, and you knew this a long time ago, but I'm just starting to figure this out. You knew because you've always been so god damn loved it's repulsive. I'm tired of being just like my father. That's all he wanted me to be. I'm a wealthy murderer, but who gives a shit? I'm alone. At least my father had a wife. I have no one. Draco stopped for a moment, wondering if he was making any sense. He decided he didn't care. He needed to speak to someone, even if it was someone he loathed. It occurred to him a shrink would have been better equipped for this, but no matter. I hate who I've become. I want to be someone else... and I wonder... I don't know, Harry. You've got a lovely little life, with your lovely little scar, and your lovely little job, and your lovely little Ron and Hermione. You don't understand. Draco turned his head away. I've challenged you to a duel. I'd like to fulfill my challenge, and I don't suspect that you'll argue. Now, let us begin. The Auror in pursuit of the Death Eater... how exciting. He stood up and positioned his wand.  
  
A jumble of ideas raced through Draco's head at that moment; it felt like his heart was pounding against his chest twice as fast as usual. This was the second time he would duel Harry Potter, but this time it was real. He had a feeling they were going to duel to the bitter end. _I'll win, easily_, Draco said to himself.   
  
He knew he'd win. He was Draco Malfoy and there simply wasn't space for losing. _But, the question is... would killing him count as a win, or would dying count as a win?_ Somewhere in the back of his head, Draco wanted to die. _Suicide._ This would be the perfect suicide; he'd allow Harry to kill him. And the beautiful Harry Potter would live on; everyone would congratulate him on the kill, and then he'd go purge the world of Lord Voldemort. Nobody would remember Draco when it was all over, but at least he was going to die a man's death.   
  
He could die, knowing that he finally did something half decent. _Yes, that's it, I'll let Harry win. Kill me, show that you're able to kill some worthless piece of shit with a nice face..._  
  
Harry moved in closer to Draco, and position his own wand. He needed to strike first. Draco was quick, but Harry would be be quicker. He was used to being faster than his opponent.  
  
He looked at the strong man standing before him. That's all Harry saw. A strong, arrogant man. He had a nice body, he had the purest hair, he had a perfectly angled jaw bone, and he had immaculate robes. Malfoy was almost too beautiful a creature to be an enemy.  
  
Yeah, he'll look better as a waxy corpse, he will, Harry muttered under his breath. _  
  
_Harry flickered his wand hand, breathing the first curse that came to mind. It was some sort of yellow bolt of light, and it struck Draco on his right shoulder. Draco didn't move. He didn't even flinch, or blink. It was as though he wanted to die... _does he want to die?  
  
_Thick crimson blood welled up from Draco's shoulder; his robes were slashed where the curse hit. He looked down at it. Blood began to saturate the smooth, black silk of his sleeve.  
  
My best robes... _Attack him, Draco, revenge...  
  
_Harry paused for a moment, wondering why Draco was standing there like a bewildered child. It didn't seem right. Nevertheless, Harry continued. He didn't care. Draco deserved to die. He was a killer. A Death Eater. A bigot. He'd devoted his whole life to hatred, and it was time it ended.  
  
Harry shouted, wondering vaguely why he had chosen to use the Cruciatus curse. Draco's body froze up and began to twitch in mid air, his muscles tightened, and his knees gave out as he fell backwards. He landed on what appeared to be a crystal ball, which shattered under the weight of his fall. He felt sharp shards of glass dig into his back. They were cold and burning, and the fog-like substance from inside the broken crystal ball began to pervade his skin. It seeped into the cut on his arm, searing like nothing he'd felt before.  
  
Draco's house elf was gaping with large red eyes, shaking. M-master, oh, no, master, he stuttered, rushing to Draco's side.   
  
Harry was about to strike again but paused, trying to avoid the elf. He looked down at Draco. _That's how it should be. His kind should be looked down upon._ Draco, meanwhile, began to scramble up to his feet. Shaky, he rested his left hand on the painted white wall.  
  
Within moments, Draco had fallen to the floor, unable to withstand the Unforgivable Curse. Bloody hell Harry, you've ruined my robes and my floor... he whispered, a thin veil of sweat beading over his forehead. The formerly golden-brown wood on the floor was beginning to sink under a growing puddle of crimson spilling from Draco's damp skin.  
  
Draco stopped struggling to stay conscious. Before he lost all sense of self, he began thinking to himself... _Funny, just the other day the situation was reversed...  
  
_And then the distant ceiling above faded away, as if the victorian-patterned crown molding on the ceiling was slowly vaporizing.  
  
Harry looked around, stunned. He felt heat rise to his cheeks. Heat of anger. He'd been cheated out of a decent duel. Draco surely wasn't dead, but what to do now? He supposed he could just leave the boy there, bleeding profusely on the floor, or perhaps he could put him to bed... but where was bed? He hadn't seen the part of the house Malfoy stayed in.  
  
He looked at Natty the house elf, waiting for some sort of answer to come about. That wasn't a proper duel. He wanted to lose. Did you see him just stand there like a statue?  
  
Natty's big eyes opened and closed. He looked shocked that Harry had addressed him.  
  
Right, nice chatting with you as well, Harry muttered.  
  
Yes, sir. No sir, I mean. I mean, Master wanted Harry Potter to kill him in a duel, sir. But Harry Potter saw that, didn't he? Harry Potter is a kind wizard. Harry Potter not kill Master, he twittered.  
  
Let's put him on the couch. Maybe I'll phone Sirius. Let him know... Harry felt around his waist and chest for the cellular phone Sirius had given him. Nothing. Moron must have confiscated it. What would Draco Malfoy want with a Muggle communication device? Harry flickered his wand at Draco and rose him up to a large, black velour couch. He carefully set Draco down, acutely aware of the stains about to accumulate upon the soft material.  
  
You know what I'll do now? he whispered to Natty. I'll have a look around. Get to know the place. It'll make things easier to manipulate.   
  
Natty just looked back at Harry.  
  
Harry had never been to such a place. He'd attended ostentatious Ministry balls and dinners and so forth, but Draco's mansion was the size of a large four star resort, it seemed. It was newer than Hogwarts and most of the traditional wizarding architecture in Hogsmeade; it looked as though Lucius has built the place himself. It was full of shadows, lit by orange and red flames floating in mid air--like candles without the actual candle, and furnished all in black, red, and gold fabrics. Velvet on the chairs, satin pillows, silk tassels on the drapes.  
  
Harry was not familiar with Lucius, but he assumed there would be all sorts of enchantments lurking about, and grotesque Dark objects, perhaps dead bodies and carcasses...  
  
_No, Harry dear, don't be stupid, take Draco back to the Ministry right away and let them deal with him,_he told himself. That was, after all, his assignment. He was to bring Malfoy to Fudge...  
  
He set his eyes on Draco, lying in a heap, probably in some sort of immense, subconscious pain. His eyes were drawn, and his long lashes skimmed over his cheeks. The silvery hair on his head was disheveled, though usually mid-length and very tame. His face was a little waxy, and his red lips were opened slightly at the side. He seemed to unassuming. So innocent. So well dressed. Like some supercilious, high society young man whom people admired merely for his charisma.  
  
_What is wrong with me?  
  
_But Draco _was _beautiful. He had a gaunt, hungry look to him, dark shadows under his eyes and cheekbones... very defined cheekbones... Harry liked that...  
  
_Maybe I'll stay, just for a moment or two. Maybe I'll have a go at this gluttonous lifestyle, just to see what the fuss is about. Wonder if they've got escargot. Who eats that dung, anyway?  
  
_Then it was settled. Harry was a bit tired, anyhow, and he wasn't sure if he was strong enough yet to wander his way out of this labyrinth of a house.   
  
Happen to have a towel or cloth? he asked Natty.  
  
Yes, sir, Right away sir.  
  
Thank you. Natty, shocked from hearing thank you came back within seconds, clutching a large burgundy towel, monogrammed in swirled golden thread. Harry took the towel and stood over Draco in examination. His smooth shoulder was badly cut, and he had some scratches from the shattered crystal ball... perhaps he'd gone a little too hard on Draco. Harry pressed the towel to Draco's shoulder, trying to think of the best spell to undo a blood stain.  
  
His mind kept disobeying him, and he never thought of any spells. He couldn't stop kicking himself for not realizing that Draco was merely trying to get himself killed. He was supposed to know these things. And even though his job was to kill Draco, he couldn't do just that now. It would allow Draco a triumph. _I don't understand this creature, and I'm sure I never will..._  
  
Harry dropped himself into a large suede covered armchair and watched the early morning shadows pour in from the windows, slinking over the unconscious Draco. He was in bad shape, Harry thought, all cut up and limp, but it could be worse.  
  
*  
  
Seamus Finnigan didn't notice the slimy feel of unwashed clothing against his skin. He hadn't been home to change for a while now. When he had snuck away from Flint, he elected to go straight into some secluded countryside, where he was hoping to stumble upon Draco Malfoy's mansion.  
  
He knew, in the back of his mind, that it wasn't going to be such a simple process. He jotted down any words that he'd coerced out of Flint with the Veritaserum, and he replayed them over and over to himself. He knew where the mansion was, longitude and latitude wise, but it wasn't the sort of place he could just walk up to...   
  
In the mean time, he Apparated to the Three Broomsticks. His mouth was dry, lips cracked, and still tasted of Marcus Flint. The obvious solution was to order a drink or two.  
  
He pulled open the door and made his way over to Madam Rosmerta. She eyed him suspiciously like she did of every customer these days. She could never be too sure whether or not someone was who they led on to be.  
  
When Seamus approached her, he suddenly forgot to remember that he was thirsty. What did it matter if he had a drink? Dean Thomas was dead. _Dead._ Gone, killed, lying on the ground. Draco Malfoy had killed him. Mother fucker. For no fucking reason.  
  
Can I help you? Anything, Finnigan? Madam Rosmerta persisted. Seamus' eyes had gone glassy, as if he was seeing something between the molecules of oxygen in the air. All right? No? What's gotten into you, Seamus? she asked, inching away as if there was something to fear of this strange behavior.  
  
Madam Rosmerta watched as Seamus suddenly turned around and walked out the door.  
  
Haven't you heard? a slimy voice muttered from her left side. The voice belonged to Mr. Adrian Pucey, who amused himself all over town building up rumors about Voldemort and the Death Eaters.  
  
Heard what? I mean, I suppose I haven't, in that case, Rosmerta replied.  
  
His best friend was killed by a pair of Death Eaters. A clean kill. Flawless. Must've known what they were doing, those Death Eaters... he smirked and chuckled, revealing a mouth full of yellowing teeth.  
  
A short haired, clean cut, half-giant poked his nose in on the conversation. He vaguely resembled Rubeus Hagrid. Something was missing: the awful clothing, the bushy hair, the pink umbrella. A newly boasted crew cut adorned his face, and some sort of decent-smelling cologne was distributed over him. He sported cotton, olive green robes and had a slender wand tucked in his lower left pocket.  
  
Hagrid! How _are _you? Madam Rosmerta gushed upon seeing her most loyal customer. She eyed him devilishly. He looked _so_ much better ever since he tied the knot with that French headmistress... she must have whipped him into shape, fixed that mane of hair, picked out a nice set of robes...  
  
Not bad, how about yerself?  
  
She sigh, throwing back her head in exasperation. Business is slow. Not a lot of people come into Hogsmeade these days, and nobody has the desire to loaf around socializing when they've got to keep a watchful eye. Not to mention, nobody has the money to spend... had to lower the price of everything I sell...  
  
Must be awful, not being wealthy. _I_ wouldn't know, Adrian Pucey chanted, shying away from Hadrid in disgust. He took a barbaric gulp of beer.   
  
Mus' be awful, being so awful, Hagrid muttered. And yeh seem well informed about these Death Eaters, don't yeh, old Pucey?  
  
Watch out, or I'll have them after you, he whispered, lowering his chin and flashing dark eyes at Hagrid. He arose from his seat and moved hastily out of the Three Broomsticks, his long robes flowing behind him like a shadow.  
  
Seamus was still outside, idly gazing at the stones on the sidewalk. How nice it must have been to be a stone. Stones didn't murder each other. Stones were peaceful creatures. Stones didn't die.  
  
Pardon me, Adrian Pucey told Seamus, as he _most_ mistakenly shouldered Seamus on his way out.   
  
*  
Draco narrowed his eyes, trying to sharpen his misty vision. He remembered dueling Harry... he'd been hit with a curse--landed on the antique crystal ball that had once belonged to Circe herself and had been rather expensive--cut up his back...  
  
He shot to an upright position. He was in his own bedroom, tucked tightly under his white duvet. His robes had been removed. Draco shivered slightly; he was bare, save for a small pair of red boxers... His right shoulder was wrapped in bandages, so far as he could make out, and Natty was there with him, pouring a glass of water. Harry, to where had Harry run off? He was probably long gone, at the Ministry, telling those useless wizards everything...  
  
Natty approached, and reached up to Draco, feeding him water. Draco was not thirsty and coughed it out, rather than swallow.  
  
Where is he? he demanded, rising from his bed.  
  
Master Potter, sir?  
  
Draco said nothing. He glanced at himself in one of the many unframed, rectangular mirrors he had hanging on his wall. I look like piss, he assessed, and wandered through an archway leading to his bathroom.  
  
Master Potter is good wizard. He spared Master Malfoy his life. I give him food and drink. He stays here.  
  
What? You're shitting me... still here? Can't resist me, can he? Draco rummaged into a slender cabinet by his bathroom sink and pulled out a Mason Pearson hairbrush (genuine Knarl bristles). He began tidying up his silver strands of hair when three knocks sounded from his bedroom door.   
  
Harry walked in, assuming Draco was still unconscious. Ah. So you've decided to get off your arse, finally?  
  
Draco put down his hairbrush, and turned to Harry. Yes, you can imagine, I was unconscious and struck with the urge to awaken so I could have a chat with some bloody Auror. I hate Aurors, you know that?  
  
Bad experience as a child? Did an Auror turn wittle Malfoy into an animal?  
  
_That_ was not an Auror. I do hate you blokes, though. Always chasing feebly after Death Eaters.  
  
How are your scrapes? Harry wondered, occupying himself with a dried up skull sitting un Draco's mantle.  
  
Oh, they're fucking wonderful. Thanks for being so concerned.  
  
Don't mention it. Well, I did a fine job of dressing them, didn't I?  
  
Draco shrugged, wincing. I'll give you credit for that... He looked down at himself, And you've somehow managed to _un_dress me, haven't you?  
  
Harry felt a hot rush into his cheeks. _Oh, don't blush, you blasted cheeks, you... _Er, I wasn't--er, no, I... didn't know how else to go about things, he prattled.   
  
Sorry? Didn't expect that from you. Well, Potter; when in doubt, undress your opposition. There won't be any place to hide. I s'pose it's all right, then, if your sorry...  
  
Wouldn't think you'd've minded, Malfoy.  
  
I don't. With arms like these... he cooed, looking down at his artfully crafted triceps. And he certainly didn't have smooth that six pack for the hell of it; these things were meant to be seen and ooed and ahhed.  
  
They are nice, Harry noticed, nodding in approval. Work out much?  
  
Naturally. You?  
  
Couldn't go on without my membership to the gym. I find it really helps... with work... intimidates Dark Wizards. Or, at least, more so than some scrawny bloke...  
  
Membership to the gym, Draco echoed. Pity. I've got my own gym, you know.  
  
Bet you work hard for all this money, don't you, Malfoy? Arrogant arsehole.  
  
Thanks. I've always wanted to be one of those. Draco slumped onto the side of his bed. Harry's eyes followed him.   
  
Why, pray tell, are you _sorry? _You don't get sorry. You don't give a damn.  
  
I'm fucking sorry that I've always been an arrogant asshole. I'm sorry you're to compassionate--or whatever you call it--to finish me off. I'm sorry all I have in my possession is a load of galleons, Draco told him in a breath.  
  
That's what you want, Harry reminded him.  
  
To hell with it. Don't even tell me what I want. Or do. I don't know. _I_ don't know what I want, how should you? Oh, mind your own damn business. Oh, piss off already, Draco threw his head onto his feather pillow, breathlessly in pain and arching his back, as he'd managed to land on a scratch or two.  
  
I wasn't asking. You volunteered.  
  
Draco lay there, idle. He hated when Harry had a point. Harry tried helplessly to occupy himself as awkward silence ensued. He noticed the numerous mirrors hung about Draco's wall, aligned so that each mirror reflected into itself infinitely. Then he became quite interested with a crow that had been flapping around outside the window.  
  
Draco had taken to staring at the ceiling.  
  
  
  
You're a faggot, aren't you.  
  
Fuck off.  
  
Just say so, and I will, Draco sniggered.  
  
That has no relevance to anything whatsoever.  
  
Well, I'm wondering why you've stayed at my house, when, all this time, you could've just left? And I'm wondering about all those photos in your wallet. You know, the ones with you and that skinny guy with the leather pants. Leather pants... how _Muggle._  
  
Harry felt around his robe pockets once again, and realized his wallet was missing.  
  
Draco persisted, Why did you suddenly realize that Cho Chang--that girl from Hogwarts that you dated for a while--why did you suddenly realize you had no interest in her one day? Don't be shy, darling.  
  
I said fuck off, Harry muttered.  
  
Why are you being difficult?  
  
No matter how much he'd deny it, Harry couldn't help but stare at Draco. He'd thought him to be quite lovely since he'd beat him up in the duel. It appalled him, yet he couldn't get it out of his head... _Draco Malfoy is hot.  
  
_I'm not being difficult. He isn't a Muggle, anyhow, Harry informed Draco.  
  
  
  
The skinny guy with the leather pants.' He was educated at a small French wizarding school. Met him when he came to London on business--he happens to be a top broomstick craftsman, Harry jabbered, unaware of the way he had allowed himself to talk so much.  
  
Oh, how sweet.  
  
Mind your own business, Malfoy, Harry muttered.  
  
You volunteered, darling, Draco chanted.  
  
Don't darling' me. And don't hassle me about being a faggot. You know very well you are.  
  
Eh? No, not Draco Malfoy. I do pull off leather pants better than that bloke, what did you say his name was?  
  
I didn't, Harry began, It's Laurent.  
  
Right. Well, I'm not gay. I'm sexually liberated. Er, bi. It's really much better that way. More opportunities.  
  
Yeah. I used to think I was as well. Alas, I am not.  
  
Ah, well, what's a wizard to do?   
  
Draco stretched out on his bed, yawning. Harry continued to look at the Death Eater. Draco glared at him with wet, gray eyes. We've a lot more in common than I would ever imagine.  
  
It's always been this way. How grotesque. I used to think about that back in school sometimes. You know. We both played Seeker, we were both Prefects--  
  
We both had a bunch of losers at our heels.  
  
Ah, that isn't so. _My_ friends are not losers, Harry noted angrily.  
  
Of course not.  
  
Harry started, deciding to get down to business, I have won the duel. Therefore, you are under arrest.  
  
I often wonder what it's like to be over arrest. And what are you going to do, Potter darling? You are stranded in my house with no knowledge of how to escape. You can either stay here or stay here. If you kill me, you'll never find your way out. If you don't kill me, you'll be living as a prisoner. I have a nice set up, wouldn't you say?  
  
And I have people who care when I'm gone. People who won't have any trouble finding this place, Harry said smugly.  
  
Oh, I'm Harry Potter, I have friends, and they _love_ me. Fuck you Harry.  
  
Same to you. _He called me by my first name... we're on first name terms?_   
  
Natty, I really could use some vodka. You, Harry?  
  
I don't drink, he told Malfoy disapprovingly.  
  
Sure you do.  
  
There is a time for working, and a time for drinking. They don't mix well.  
  
Draco wrinkled his nose. Well, Natty, what are you waiting for, the Dark Lord to destroy Albus Dumbledore? It's going to take a while. So bring something, will you? Natty pranced off. Are you still here on business, Harry? I mean, you might as well have taken me off by now. But you are still here.  
  
Business. This is business. So let us get down to business. Take me out of here. It could help you in court. You know; less time in Azkaban.  
  
Oh, Harry! Don't make me go to Azkaban. Don't waste this perfectly beautiful boy on _that._ Come on, don't try and tell me you don't want to fuck me right now. I can see it written all over, Mr. Potter. Draco is _so_ beautiful, I could just eat him up.  
  
Tempting. Quite. But I'll get on fine without you, thanks. Sorry, I've just seen better. Ever been to San Francisco? I was there looking for a rogue ministry wizard once--and they have gorgeous wizards running all over. Ahem, where was I? Ah, yes. Let's get the hell out of here, Malfoy, Harry stated firmly.  
  
You'll try the front door, naturally, and you'll find that once your hand touches the knob, you will feel an odd biting sensation, as if someone were gnawing at your skin. Then you will look down to find that the doorknob does actually gnaw at your skin and that you are missing a large patch of this skin. Just a tip.  
  
Interesting. This might be fun, you know?  
  
It'd be more fun if you just gave it up--at least for a while--and stayed with me. I know we have bad history, but we could work things out.  
  
Harry wondered why Malfoy had a sudden desire to convince him to stay. Malfoy probably figured it would buy him some time. Or maybe he thought that if he could befriend Harry, Harry wouldn't give him to the Ministry.  
  
Of course we could work things out. You being the friendly old guy you are. Have you not forgotten that we are enemies?  
  
We are. But enemies can still have fun. Why not toss that whole enemy thing aside and have a good time? Do you prefer cotton bedsheets or silk? Draco asked glumly. He wondered if he was fighting a losing battle.  
  
Harry sunk himself down next to Draco on the fluffy bed. He looked at the Death Eater in silence. He suddenly felt an inexplicable yearning to sweep over Draco's hands... as if he wanted to be sure that Draco was indeed alive. _Does he even feel?  
  
_Without thinking, Harry's left hand slipped away from him, and two fingers slid over Draco's right hand. He traced the protruding dark blue veins, so clear through Draco's cream colored skin...  
  
What crimes have these hands committed to make them so cold? Harry wondered aloud, noticing the contrast between his own warm flesh and Draco's icy hand.  
  
Draco became paralyzed. He couldn't utter such words to anyone, ever. He had to contain all wrongdoings within himself... Get away from me. Get the hell away, Draco whispered.  
  
Well, I'm curious now, and I don't plan on going five feet until you say something. I want to know. What makes a person so lonely? What coerces you to hate things the way you do? Why do you hate me?  
  
You could have had everything, and you refused it. How stubborn. Do you know what I'd give to speak Parsletongue? Or be the only surviving _Avada Kedavra_ victim? Do you realize how much power you could have had? Of course you don't. You don't want power. To me, power is strength. But you... and your kind... power is not strength. You have some twisted idealist definition of power. You probably think yourself to be a powerful wizard, Harry, or at least, a powerful character. Far too good a person for me. You've always thought that you were too good for me, you know that? Big shot. You haven't got half of what I have, and you're too good for me. I tried to offer my friendship, but you rudely dismissed me like I was some sort of... Mudblood. I don't understand you, Potter, and I really don't care whether I do or not.  
  
Harry withdrew his fingers. He didn't like the feel of Draco's skin. It made him shiver, in spite of the heat of the sun pouring down through the window.  
  
Well, I am too good for you, aren't I? No, it's not because I can speak Parsletongue, it's not because I think I'm stronger than you are. I'll tell you why. You are a rotten excuse for a wizard. You think you have everything, but you're the most jealous person I've met.  
  
You haven't met my father.  
  
Is that some sort of excuse?  
  
If you'd like it to be.  
  
Harry was flustered. I wouldn't like anything right now. Except maybe some vodka. Where is your god damn elf?  
  
You're funny, Harry. Look at you, Draco nodded at the direction of one of his wall mounted mirrors. You're seemingly ugly. Very skinny and bony, and your scar. But my eyes don't want to tear away from you. Enchanting. You're very pretty, Harry, but you just don't... feel right. When I saw you in Knockturn Alley, I was... blushing, to say the least. You've changed since Hogwarts. For the better. I thought maybe we could start over, but you're being stupid.  
  
Natty stumbled in with the drinks, and Draco poured two glasses for him and Harry.  
  
Have a drink, he said, and handed the drink to Harry.  
  
Thank you. Damn, I just thanked _you._  
  
Draco smiled. It's all right. I can be a nice boy, too.  
  
Harry drank his vodka very promptly before hinting at the desire for another glass. Draco shook his head. We're not getting drunk.  
  
You're quite right, I suppose. That would be messy.  
  
  
  
end chapter  
  
Stay tuned for more. It's really going to come this time. ^_^ While you're at it, drop me a review. Even if it's to tell me I'm slower than a sloth, I don't mind.  



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